


Destination Position

by Arsenic



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: F/M, Gen, Immigration & Emigration, Letters, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Pre-Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: In the wake of the fall of the Iron Curtain, the Sergievskys emigrate to America.  But first, Svetlana writes a letter.





	Destination Position

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weakinteraction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakinteraction/gifts).



> Unbeta'ed because this is a treat and that's how I roll with treats. 
> 
> Recip -- I hope you enjoy this. I was actually going toward an epistolary fic and then failed, but I had a really great time writing it, and am so happy about the prompt you gave. With any luck, you'll get some fun out of it, too.

_January 3, 1992_

_Dear Miss Vassy,_

_You will forgive my English, I hope. It is a product more of schooling than practice._

_My children are aged eleven and eight. The youngest, Sasha, he cannot remember Anatoly when he returns with me. Now, though, he learns his first chess moves._

_You will be wondering why I am writing to you. Anatoly has gotten for us passports, exit visas. The United States is accepting of our application to come, but we have nobody there. I ask of him to write to you, as his friend, but he refuses. So I am writing. As a woman who will be far from her home to another woman who once was taken from her home. I am asking not for much. A friendly face at the airport. A suggestion of where we might live._

_You loved him, I know. Maybe, like me, there is part of you that always will. Please._

_With sincerity, Svetlana Sergievsky_

There is no good way to get a letter back to Russia. Svetlana has attached a flight manifest to her plea. Florence turns it over in her hands so many times in the weeks between receiving the letter and when their plane is set to land, it softens into a cottony pulp.

Since finding a home for herself and her father in Queens, Florence has been working for US Chess on a new program intended to train American women to compete at the level of the Russians and now the Chinese. Establishing teachers has been one of the trickiest bits. There aren't very many American women who have the mastery necessary and the American men who do are largely disinterested in tutoring young women.

She tells her father about the letter when he says, "You seem tired."

She makes them both coffee, sets a board between them, and says, "The Sergievsky family is emigrating."

His eyes are soft even as he makes a rather aggressive opening move. "Why is everything your problem, little flower?"

"It's not," she says instinctively. Then, "Whose should it be? It has to be someone's."

He shrugs. "His? His wife's? The government's? It granted the visa."

"She asked for help. His wife, Svetlana. She wrote me." Florence makes her first move. It's defensive, which is not normally her style. 

"You believe you owe her."

Florence hasn't got a clue what she believes anymore. "I—I know too well the fear of the unknown and of so-called friendly governments."

His smile is stilted, constrained by nerve damage accrued over years of mistreatment. "I am proud of who you are."

"I don't know what that means."

He makes a second move. "I think you do."

*

Florence meets them at the airport, outside customs. She spots them first, and knows she should move, go to them, but suddenly that seems impossible, even the simple physical element of it. The boys are both gangly in that way children of all ages are, overgrown and still not sure of their physical limitations. Anatoly is still impeccably self-contained, but there is something paternal in him that wasn't present before.

Svetlana sees Florence first, and smiles, uncertain but wide. And for the first time, Florence allows herself to truly see the woman. She has always known that men were not the only thing that interested her, but has rarely indulged her taste for women. In college, a bit, when it was relatively easy to find someone similar and be discreet.

Life is hard enough for a woman in the chess world. She never had any desire to make it harder on herself. But now, more settled in her skin than she has ever been, and a woman who can lay claim to at least one other family member, now it is hard to look away from this woman who was smart enough to capture Anatoly in the first place, fierce enough to come after him, and brave enough to reach out to another woman who could only reasonably be considered competition.

It is hard to look away, so Florence doesn't. Rather, she raises her hand and waits as Svetlana herds them to her. Anatoly's gaze is on her, quiet and knowing. Florence cannot tell whether Svetlana let him in on the fact that she had written to Florence. Once they are in hearing range, she manages, "Welcome."

Florence understands enough Russian to know that what follows are some brief introductions, Svetlana calling her Ms. Vassy and saying something about US Chess, maybe as an explanation for why Florence would be meeting them there. It's as good as an excuse as any. Anatoly's eyes slide away any time she tries to look his way.

She says, "I thought, ah, you'd be hungry. It's a long journey."

Svetlana leans in and kisses both her cheeks in the European fashion of greeting. "Food and a cup of something warm will be most appreciated."

Florence's cheeks tingle. "Right. There's a place—it's—we'll take a cab."

*

The place Florence takes them is just a diner, but the family who owns it is Hungarian, émigrés who live near where Florence and her father are renting, and she feels comfortable there. They aren't stingy with coffee refills, and they make a good burger, as well as a goulash that is the epitome of comfort food.

Florence questions Sasha about chess, and asks Grishka, the eldest, what he would like to see in America. Grishka is withdrawn, but not cold. Shy, more than anything, definitely unsure of his English. He eventually admits he would like to see a Guns 'n Roses concert. He plays the guitar.

When the boys have eaten, Anatoly ushers them to the restrooms to wash up, leaving Svetlana and Florence the table to themselves. Florence says, "You did not tell him."

"I did," Svetlana tells her. "On the plane."

Florence surprises herself by laughing. Svetlana's answering smile is tired, but smacks of agreement. "He…there is only himself for blaming."

Florence raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"At first, when he comes back, he will not talk of you. But I make him see, as months pass, that you are part of his story. Part of our story. And so he tells me. And I know, as he talks, I know this woman he falls in love with, and maybe I fall a little in love with her, too."

"Svetlana—"

"You—if you ask him to stay, then, he stays. But you do not. You do not place your happiness over our lives."

"Jesus Christ, yes, I'm not a horrendous human being, that's hardly—"

Svetlana shakes her head. "I do not think you know what you are. Sometimes we do not."

"And you only have the word of a man who was in love with me." Florence wishes she could take back the words as soon as they are out of her mouth.

To her surprise, Svetlana merely nods. "Yes, but he is a man I love and trust."

*

Florence walks with them, helping them to carry the luggage they have brought to a third floor walk-up not far from the diner. It is rented by US Chess for the time being, as Florence has convinced them of the usefulness of helping the Sergievsky family. It actually hadn't taken much: the current head of the board is a fan of Anatoly's.

The place is simple: two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen and a room where a couch could fit if measured properly. Anatoly kisses her cheek, the first contact he has initiated. "Thank you. We had planned on finding a hostel at first."

Florence shakes her head. "A hostel is for traveling college kids."

"And jobless immigrants."

"About that. My father has been taking chess students. There are classifieds that reach the right populations. It's not a lot of money, but it is enough to help until you can find something full-time. And I have an appointment set up with my boss at US Chess for you on Monday, to discuss some other possibilities."

He kisses her forehead then. "This was not your battle."

Florence cannot say either of them has ever known which battles were theirs—only that there are battles that have to be fought.

*

Florence leaves her phone number with Svetlana. "Call if you need anything. I will pick Anatoly up for the meeting on Monday to help him with the public transportation."

She is just beginning to move about the apartment on Sunday morning, turning on the coffee maker, considering whether to make túrógombóc or kip down to the doughnut shop a few blocks over. Her father is already up—she has noticed he does not sleep much these days—rustling around in his bedroom.

She's poking about in the cabinets, seeing if she even has the necessary ingredients for the túrógombóc when there is a knock on the door. Frowning, she goes to the peep hole and sees Svetlana in the hall, a covered tray in her hands. Florence opens the door. "Good morning?"

"I thought, perhaps, some syrniki?"

Grishka and Sasha are behind her, all but clinging to her. Anatoly is to the side, a small smile on his face. Florence grins. "It's as though you read my mind."

She steps back and they file into the apartment. Svetlana sets the dish on the kitchen table with only two chairs at it. Florence asks, "Coffee? I just made some."

"Please," Svetlana says. "For Anatoly. Do you have tea?"

"Nothing fancy, just Lipton."

"That will be fine."

Florence calls, "Papa, the Sergievskys are here with breakfast." She turns to the boys. "Do you like orange juice?"

Sasha nods. Grishka shuffles a bit, which Florence chooses to take as a yes. Her father emerges from his room, a crumpled bit of the Sunday Times in his hand and says, "Ah, a family I've heard much about."

Svetlana goes to him, taking introductions in hand as Florence pours Anatoly the coffee—he likes it black—and sets a kettle of water to boiling for the tea. She pours her father another coffee, also black, and the boys their orange juice. For herself, she pours some cream into her coffee. She scrounges about and finds four plates and two bowls. It's just the two of them, and neither of them has any interest in entertaining.

It works, though. They have strawberry jam, butter, and sour cream. Florence puts on a second pot of coffee. The children sit on the sofa with her father, who has managed to engage them in what sounds like a discussion about fishing, of all things. Anatoly pulls back a chair at the table for Svetlana, and then one for Florence. He leans against the wall.

It is crowded, the space a little overheated even in the cold of the February morning. Florence takes a syrniki and bites into it. She closes her eyes a moment and then opens them, catching Svetlana's gaze. It is intent, a woman who wishes to understand how her creation has spoken to another woman. Under the table, their feet brush in what might be an accident. Florence tells her, "This is perfection."

Svetlana's cheeks pinken, her eyes sharpen, and she says, "There is nothing we cannot be improving upon." She reaches out her hand to Anatoly, who takes it. 

He muses, "This is true."

Florence takes another bite and smiles. "It might be."

She's willing to see.


End file.
